Unromantic
by Verdot
Summary: A young Vincent. Purpose. Misunderstanding. Redefinition. For those who wonder why he never misses. Dedicated to Tijuana Pirate.


_When the stars threw down their spears,  
And watered heaven with their tears,  
Did he smile his work to see?  
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?_

_Tiger! Tiger! burning bright  
In the forests of the night,  
What immortal hand or eye  
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?_

William Blake _The Tiger_

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I have long since come to believe that certain men are simply _made_. They are not born of flesh or iron or whatever energy the powers that be are using these days. Like machines, they are simple put together, programmed with specific purposes.

I was made for guns.

Some might think it's the other way around, that man made the gun to serve his will. I have since learned that it is not the case. For once I have it in my palm; I can feel it through the impossibly smooth metal...

It is alive. There is an ancient sentience beyond any knowledge that I could ever hope to gain. The gun can kill. The gun can also protect. It takes wisdom to know such a thing, to be able to perceive that. It is because of this knowledge that I know I was simply _made_. It is good. It is simple. It is fulfilling.

"Something going on in that dense head of yours, little brother?"

She always knows how to shock me back into her world. Voice like a crone. Face like my mother. Beautiful, I guess. Men don't often think about their sisters like that.

"I only get one day off this month," I reply, I hate it when I have to articulate myself beyond a few words, "Must you bother me?" She laughs, like she always does. I've finally grown tall enough for them to see that I'm truly the older one in the family; chronology is a false thing.

"You shouldn't be so serious," she laughs, a light lilt in the autumn breeze, "You'll get gray hair and look old before your time." I frown. I do not care to be patronized. So for that, I will not dignify her with a response.

"Oh, Vin..." she already caves, and I try my best not to grin, "I was just teasing." Helen. She knows that she can win anyone's heart, yet she tries so hard to pretend she can't. Foolish.

I have also learned that certain women are _made_. Though they are less of a purpose; more of an art. Delicate. My elder sister is such an art... I am glad that she is the one to bear such a burden. Lend to me my purpose, and she can sit and look pretty doing hers.

I will not fall under her shadow. Nor anyone else's.

"You are such a peacock," I mutter, the term I've used for her since I became educated enough to taunt her successfully. Now she frowns, and even that is an art in and of itself; I am glad to be one of the few men that can resist her charms. Though it is tiresome, fending off the numerous men within the ranks of my profession. I turn away, looking out into nothing, biding my time until she speaks.

The Turks. Though I haven't the faintest idea as to why we are called that. They let me do my purpose. Very few organizations would hand a gun, no, give a kid to a gun. As much as I hate to admit it, I am hardly an adult.

I wait for her retort, as it always comes, and I turn to look at her frown, or whatever contortion her face takes to mock me. Silly little peacock doesn't like her feathers...

That's when I see the pale look on her face. Something has scared her.

The gun calls to me, from my side. I do not even know what I am thinking; I simply know that it has called me, asked me to aid it in its purpose. We are a symbiotic system. We are both _made_.

It is when I blink that I notice what I have shot. Not to kill; for the gun did not want whoever had caught us by surprise to be eliminated. Yet.

"I suggest you tell me as to why you are here," I begin; my instructors always tell me that I am a good negotiator, "In enough time that I do not decide to shoot you again" I can focus on the man, yes it is a man, ever so steady. I do not need to look at Helen; I know she's watching. Yes, sister, look and see what I have become.

My pride knows no end.

"Please, I d-didn't mean to!" he pleads. With his particular flavor of a nasal voice, I know that I have seen this man before. He is a few years older than Helen, poor, and frequently appears to watch her. I do not like him, that is for certain. The gun does not either; it practically sings in my hand.

"Vincent! He means no harm," Helen whimpers behind me. She was made for beauty; can she not see that this is my domain? Gunners were made to kill, but they can also protect.

"Are you stalking her?" I ask. Any answer he gives... I am not sure it will matter. Helen doesn't see the looks that he gives her; she does not see that he is truly mad. That he would probably kill her while she slept, so that only he might possess her. I have seen people like him before, I know their patterns. She just does not know that he will eventually turn violent. I only wish I had seen him sooner, before she was around...

"Please sir," the man is whispering now, "You don't understand it, you don't _see_ beauty... that my old eyes simply want to behold... I wouldn't touch her, I wouldn't—"

Pleading, groveling fool. I did him a favor. The gun stopped his pathetic droolings. I look over at Helen, smiling. Does she see what I have become? I hope she is—

She is crying? Why are you crying Helen? I protected you. Are you not proud? Do you not see what I have been _made_ for? _Why are you crying, Helen?_

Maybe it is just the shock. A creature of beauty is not meant to see death; maybe she is still processing it. Maybe. I reach out my free hand to her, smiling, like she always tells me to. She always tells me that eighteen is such a young and carefree age, if I am young and carefree, will you _stop crying_?

"Helen," I say, still holding out my hand, she is trembling now, "It is alright now. He will not harm you anymore." She shakes he head, backing up slowly. My smile is gone now, she is confusing me. I tell her that she is pretty when she dresses up all fancy for the men, why is she not seeing what _I_ am for?

"You... you..." she whimpers, choking on her sobs, "you... monster." With that, she runs, practically tripping on her white and overly fancy dress. A dress that I paid for with my second paycheck, a benefit of finally finding my purpose. Oh, it is so cold here, just the barest grips of winter beginning to take over the breeze. Even the gun grows cold in my hand, when it felt so alive and warm only just moments ago.

I look over at the corpse, who looks even more pleading in death. At least he will not sound that way anymore.

Purpose is such an unromantic notion... that is it. That is why she ran. Beauty can do little to understand power. Roses do not grow from iron. Still... I wonder. No. No. I shake my head, tearing my thoughts away from the blasphemy I know will ensue.

I know why you were crying, I know. Do not worry; you will not have to see that ever again. Next time, yes, next time I see you, I will bring something beautiful. Then you will see. I will find a flower more lovely than even you, and you will understand. You will smile.

Even the shaking of my shooting hand does not weaken the strength of my stride as I leave, hopefully to return a better man.

* * *

AN: Yes, a little weird for me. But I've always wondered what makes a person an assassin, what sort of mind would produce it. Also, I always thought it interesting how Vin was always talking about how _beautiful_ Lucrecia was... and T. Pirate wanted a Vin-Turk story that was before Nibelheim. Dark too. Hope this fits the bill.  



End file.
